Dichotomy
by MourningMonday
Summary: Her life was characterized by fire: the end that started it all, a friend when nights were long, the look in their eyes when she was with them, the burning in her heart when she was not. It was always fire, and it would always be by fire that she died-but this? She'd take the agony of the stake over this misery any day. Triad. Canon divergence starting book 4.


Dichotomy  
Chapter One  
In Regards to London

She shouldn't have been surprised, really. The fact her mother even remembered to send a message was a miracle in and of itself. Normally she was too busy in business meetings and traveling to even spend a moment thinking of her. Still, was it too much to ask for a teeny, tiny break on this one day? Just one day, please.

"SLOANE ACANTHUS PLAYFER! Just because I am not there doesn't mean you can simply slack off with your schooling and act like a slob! I cannot _believe _you had the gall to pull a stunt like this so close to your trip! How dare you behave so unladylike! How! Dare! You! Do you still believe I will give my consent to your exchange program after this? Do you? You are gravely mistaken, young lady, if you think there will not be any consequences."

The Howler paused in its screaming, sealing its lip flaps in consternation and disappointment. Sloane tensed, ashamed at her behavior but stubbornly unregretful. Her mother had no right to be so angry; she had done nothing wrong. At fifteen, with a soul more mature than all the other members of her coven, she was more than capable of making her own decisions, especially in regards to what she did or did not do with her body.

"Scarring your face of all things! Who will want you now? Boys don't like sloppy girls! You're lucky I don't catch a plane this instant and rip it right off your face the next time I see you! If it wouldn't be such an inconvenience to your caretakers, I would have you booted off the trip."

Sloane raised a self-conscious hand to her nose where a freshly-pierced silver ring sat, already healed as if she'd had it for months thanks to a well-made potion. It was just a ring; it wasn't like she'd eloped with some random boy or something. The fact her mother had sought to use one of the few pre-magicked Howlers in her possession on this just went to show how much she valued appearances. She held little else, including her only daughter, in high regard, after all.

"I raised you better than this."

Sloane flinched violently, turning away as the Howler ripped itself to pieces, small white parchment strips falling placidly to the floor. The image was unnaturally tranquil for the piercing storm that had raged before. She clenched her teeth, waving a hand at the cruel remnants, watching as fire engulfed them immediately, turning them to ash. She smirked at the irony.

It became dark once more save for the light of the full moon shining brilliantly through the large window in her room, casting shadows that danced in and out of corners and ridges in the furniture. Something cold sunk to the pit of her stomach, something like desolation or devastation. Her mother didn't know. She had to remind herself that nobody knew; it was just her; just her and even if it was lonely, this was her burden, her punishment and nobody else's.

_It would be worse if they knew…if they knew what I dreamt of each night…_

There was a knock on her bedroom door, and a feminine voice penetrated the wooden barrier. "Sister Sloane?"

She sighed quietly, "I'm fine, Sister Jaylynn."

"Are you sure? I heard sho—"

"I can take care of myself, Barker. You of all people should know that," she retorted, sharper than intended but no less true.

"Yes, Sister," there was a tense pause, then: "Goodnight, Sister."

Sloane waited to hear the sound of the mousy girl's footsteps fade as she returned to her room, before moving toward her desk. Sitting plainly, but still eerily, atop the black wood was a small red chest, worn and distressed, the ornate patterns a mere relic of what once was. She hated what lay within its velvet depths, hated what it meant for the world and for her as an individual.

Holding a steady hand in front of the large gilded lock, she whispered, "_Obaudio."_

The incantation seemed to break the silence with a void of absolution, the lock falling to the desk with a distinct _bang! _Without hesitation, for it had been many times she had recited this very same spell, she reached into the chest, pulling the book, even more battered than its cage, out from within. It warmed in her hand, thrumming with power and humming as if content to be in the possession of its master. In the deep parts of her mind, she could remember vague images of writing in it, filling out its contents with each new mystery she discovered about herself and about the natural world—the _magical _world.

Flipping to the first page, she traced the words written in elegant script with nostalgic fingers.

_The diary of Brigit__ Playfer (scratched out) __Wesselbe (scratched out) __Oliver (scratched out)__ Bishop to be read and reviewed by the aforementioned and only she._

Red flame flashed behind her eyes, licking up her feet, the rest of her body following. She stumbled away, dropping the book back in the chest, letting it snap back shut. The sound of her heavy uneven breathing contrasted with the rhythmic ticking of a clock, somewhere, the pocket watch in her bag. _It's just a trace image, Sloane. _But it wasn't just that, was it?

Rubbing at her eyes tiredly, Sloane maneuvered toward her trunk, grabbing a fresh set of clothes for the day (something dark, she decided, but then again: all her clothes were dark) as well as a clean towel.

After showering in the shared bathing room, she dressed in a tight long sleeve black shirt and gypsy skirt, a sliver of toned flat stomach revealing enough skin to keep her from taking on the image of some kind of prudish nun. Pulling on a pair of knee-high socks, she contemplated that thought as she slipped her feet into tall black ankle boots, easily balancing on the five-inch stiletto heels. High heels were cake when broom-riding was a mandatory lesson since schooling began at age seven, but that was off topic.

Members of her coven may call each other "Sisters," but they were anything except conservative. Their magic was of a deeper, earthen quality, different from their European counterparts, even if they had once been joined together. One of the first lessons she had learned was how to tap into Mother Nature's abundant well of fertility; being who she was, it had been made apparent very quickly that she would do great things with how easy it came to her. She and the other girls didn't have wands—they simply weren't compatible with wielding some kind of extension of nature, more apt to use their bodies as mediums instead—so some parts of magic were unavailable to them, but other parts were _made _for them. This, of course, had caused a rift between the split cultures, but it wasn't until the past couple of decades (with the European Wizarding Wars and whatnot) that contact had all but ceased entirely. Sloane wouldn't have been surprised if recent generations didn't even know about the history of the Salem Coven; the lessons to be gleamed from their mistakes.

Grabbing her messenger bag, she made sure the Playfer Grimoire was still inside, along with several quills and vials of ink, the Bishop Watch, and a tube of raspberry red lipstick. She wouldn't be doing any rigorous coursework today, since Sister Christine, an older woman of around 53 years of age who had been in charge of her instruction since she'd first dreamt her soul, would be taking the six girls traveling to Scotland aside and explaining (once again) what would be happening later today.

Albus Dumbledore, supposedly this famous wizard in Great Britain, had invited some of the Salem Coven as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to view and partake in the festivities of the Triwizard Tournament (a grand and illustrious affair that seemed more like the gladiator fights than anything else). She suspected he had finally wished to bridge the gap between their two worlds and this tournament was the perfect opportunity. It was a clever scheme, for sure, one that the other girls were blind to, but Sister Christine had seen through and readily accepted.

Walking into the dining room, she took her normal seat at the head of the table, the other reserved for Sister Christine. Immediately, one of the servants set a plate of eggs, toast and apple slices in front of her. By the time, all seventeen of the girls plus Sister Christine had eaten, it was nearly time for the select group to begin getting ready to take the portkey to King's Cross.

"Sisters! Please make sure you have everything packed in your trunk. If any of you have familiars, make sure they are secured in their cages. Now, I've already spoken to the British International Customs Officers regarding our direct travel to King's Cross Platform 9 ¾, so there shouldn't be any problems. Sister Jaylynn, have you taken your Calming Drought? Yes? Good, good. Alright, everyone grab ahold," Sister Christine babbled as she took hold of the old teapot. All six of the girls, including Sloane, placed a hand somewhere on its porcelain surface.

She felt the unnatural pull behind her naval, gripping her trunk handle tighter, and suddenly she was spinning. She kept her amber-colored eyes shut to save her from any nausea, but even as she landed on her feet at the train station, her knees still shook slightly. Traveling such a long distance had left her somewhat dizzy, though less so than the others except Sister Jaylynn who looked too far gone to even know the sky was blue.

After collecting herself, Sister Christine stowed away the portkey—no doubt keeping it safe for when she would travel back to Salem Academy after dropping them off at Hogwarts. Sloane might have wished she would stay, but she knew that as the only Old Soul left alive in their coven, Sister Christine had to continue lessons back home. It was her responsibility. Sloane, even if she wasn't the eldest in this life, was the most mature magically and spiritually, so she would take the lead while they survived this foreign world.

"Sister Sloane! Please hurry along, now!"

Heeding the call, Sloane stepped onto the train—the Hogwarts Express—and immediately set her trunk aside in her own cabin. The train was, obviously, empty, all the students normally filling it already at the school. Albus Dumbledore had specifically scheduled another departure from King's Cross just so they could arrive safely. She could have chosen a seat with one of the other girls, but solitude was a better partner than any of them—why spend time around envious, vapid twits when you can spend it with yourself? Truthfully, though…she just didn't want to deal with the fear in their eyes as they looked at her. Everyone who knew the truth had the same look, even if they only knew the bare bones misconception. It was still horrific enough to warrant their simultaneous apprehension, pity and awe.

Staring at the rolling green hills passing her by, the Playfer settled into her seat, conjuring a small ball of fire to pass the time. Throughout her lifetime, she had come to call it Fox Fire, not only because its go-to form was a prancing fox, but also because it didn't burn like normal fire. It had a mind of its own, burning based on her emotional state. Theoretically, there was probably some way to make it heal as well as destroy, but she was currently unable to perform such an act. Perhaps she would find some kind of text or reference at Hogwarts that might aid her, but for now, she simply weaved the small fox in and around her fingers, playing with it to pass the time.

By the time they reached their destination, Sloane had moved into around 40 different sitting-reclining positions, braided and unbraided her thigh-length dark gold curls eleven times and eaten seven chocolate frogs from the candy cart (acquiring cards depicting Laverne de Montmorency, Herpo the Foul, Urick the Odball, Godrick Gryffindor, Gringott and two of Albus Dumbledore).

It was no surprise she was the first off the train, dragging her trunk behind her, she had never been one to sit still for long periods of time, which was probably why she was such a good witch.

A gargantuan man stood alone, waiting for them, who introduced himself in a deep but jolly baritone as "Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwarts gamekeeper and Care o' Magical Creatures teacher." Sloane immediately liked him, listening as he explained some of the school's different features and history. After saying goodbye to Sister Christine with Hagrid assuring her they were in good hands, he took them by boat, no oars or paddles needed, with only the light of two lanterns to guide them through the thick mist hovering ominously about the lake. After a certain time, he announced, "Ah, there it is! Hogwarts!"

Sloane's first view of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy was something she would never forget. The _castle _was absolutely enormous, majestic and something out of a fairytale. In a daze as she marveled over the many moving photographs that lined the halls, listening to the comments they made about her ("That's the bloody first!" and "Do you reckon she'll share the whole story with me?"), she barely even noticed when they came to a set of grand double doors, the Great Hall as Hagrid told it.

He seemed to contemplate something for a moment, mumbling, "I reckon he's abou' done now."

With a kind of impressive ceremony, he opened the doors and let them pass. Sloane was the last to turn and walk inside, her heart beating rabbit-quick in her chest. It seemed Hagrid had an excellent sense of timing because an old man with a long beard, who she recognized from her Trading Cards as Albus Dumbledore, had just finished introducing them, "…to enjoy these games with all of you: exchange students from our American counterparts, welcome witches of the Salem Coven!"

There was a collective hush of awe before thunderous applause broke out, confirming Sloane's initial reservations regarding them. All six of her coven walked down the center area sectioning the Great Hall in half with a different air about them. Sloane, unlike the others, didn't bother trying to put on a mysterious front and simply walked with her normal amount of feline grace, ignoring the stares following her figure. A cursory glance around the room revealed that Wizarding Europe was a bit behind the times in terms of contemporary muggle society, but that was to be expected, she supposed. In America, there was an even greater distinction between muggle and witch, meaning the few witches left all came from the same bloodlines belonging to the one Salem Coven. It was much easier to integrate with their few numbers than the large population of magical folk belonging to Europe.

Breathing in deeply, her gaze was drawn to the side by some force she couldn't comprehend.

This moment, she would realize later, was the beginning.

Two pairs of deep brown eyes stared directly into her own, belonging to a set of identical twins seated at the table with the red theme (Gryffindor, Hagrid had said). She swallowed thickly, cutting her glance off; she could still feel their gazes searing into her back, shivers wracking down her frame.

Nothing, _nothing _in all her years, in all her _lifetimes _had ever felt like that.

Desperately, achingly, pitifully, she wanted to run over to them and press her palms to their cheeks, listen to their heartbeats synchronize, slip under their skin and drown in their presence. She was sick, disgusted with her thoughts and self-deprecatingly putting herself down with each new insinuation. She didn't even know them, didn't know their names, their favorite foods, their personalities, anything.

"…the rest of the year, you will live as one with your house. Now, please, step forward so the Sorting Hat may see you."

Sloane blinked back into the conversation belatedly, missing everything the older, pinch-faced witch had said. They would be sorted according to the judgments of…this talking hat. This talking hat which was sitting on Sister Jaylynn's petrified head and crying out: "Hufflepuff!"

Okay, so apparently hats could talk in Europe. She wondered what other strange things she'd find here.

"Playfer, Sloane Acanthus."

Her name; it was always called last despite her being the first (to burn, to hang, to die, to lose, to live again).

Sloane may have had uncertainties regarding this whole process—it seemed, after all, to merely perpetuate any misguided stereotyping and interhouse disputes, but who was she to say anything?—but she confidently walked, alone, towards the stool set up before her. Sitting primly and crossing her legs sensuously casual, the pinch-faced woman placed the hat on top of her head and she heard its sly voice.

_**Well, well…Sister. What an interesting mind you have. I must say that I have always been curious about the truth behind the trials, but to think that you—**_

_Isn't there something else you should be doing right now rather than raping my mind of recollections that don't concern you?_

_**Yes, you're right. Excuse my extended perusal as it's blatantly clear what house you belong to, but your memories are so vivid…Hmmm…**_

_I'm aware of that, hat. I lived them and relive them everyday._

_**Calm, Sister. I meant no harm. You rarely hold your tongue and speak your mind, a sign of courage…though some might say if taken to extremes, it's a sign for arrogance. Still, you're meant to do great things, Sloane…or should I call you Brigit? **_

_Sloane. Brigit is dead. As are Valencia, Daphne, Anne and Dorothia. _

_**Hmm, but are they? A word of advice, if you will? Don't deny the attraction, Sister. It's the only way a fox can survive in a lion's den. Now—**_

_Wait, but what attract—?_

"I say, Gryffindor!"

Finite. Prologue.

A/N: For Sloane's outfit, visit [polyvore dot com / cgi / set?id=147904623] without the spaces. If you have trouble with the link, it's on my profile page as well.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! Sadly, I'm no Legilimens, so you'll have to leave a review! Ha ha, okay lame joke, but still! If you have time, please write a quick review so I know what the general consensus for my story is. Thanks!

From Miami with love, MourningMonday


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